


Calculated Risks

by mercyme



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28797426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercyme/pseuds/mercyme
Summary: “Luke Skywalker,” Din said, pushing the Jedi’s damp bangs out of his sallow face, “assume that even twenty-eight year olds are mortal, and you’ll save us both some trouble.”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 28
Kudos: 147





	Calculated Risks

Unlike Luke, the Mand’alor was well-equipped to ride in the rain. In Luke’s side view mirror, he looked very much like one of the rich that would be passed over when the meek inherited the universe. The full moon caught on his beskar in gleaming flashes where it shone down between the broad-leafed trees above.

The jungle they traversed was the apotheosis of all jungles, huge trees stretching up to crowd out the rainclouds in the sky. It was black and abuzz with frenetic energy and so congested with life that it all blended together in the force as they swept past. An occasional landmark would stand out: the gnarled, rusted remains of an ancient landspeeder, a moss-covered dire-cat skeleton, passionflower that would bring peaceful sleep, dizziness, death. At one time, this overgrown trail bisecting the jungle had connected bustling ocean port town to rain shadow valley, where beasts of burden and ranchers made simple lives. That simplicity had long since moved on. A way of life, like so many others, that had emptied.

“Almost there, Mand’alor,” Luke called into the wind, unmasked happiness clear in his voice even as a fresh deluge dashed itself against his cheeks, then trickled downward to join the rest of the rain in his soaked-through robes.

Luke’s speeder bike was old but capable, its power generator a steady thrum between his legs in spite of the relative humidity, but its open-air concept did little to protect him from Corellia’s elements, leaving him excessively wet. For reasons of vanity, Luke rarely wore a helmet, believing rightly that they made him look ridiculous.

“Like an egg-cozy,” Leia had remarked at one point, and her teasing, as it usually did, had endured.

The rain formed in fat, unbanishable drops on his thick eyelashes, forcing him alternately to lower or throw back his head as he skidded down the blackened trail leading to his safe house. He felt, for whatever reason, a fraction uneasy, as if Grand Admiral Thrawn would be slinking out of the brush at any moment demanding to know whether Luke could spare some change for a pint.

At which point the stars as punishment sent him soaring over his handlebars, his speeder bike stalling out in the mud. 

Back on Chandrila, Luke knew the portion of Leia’s brain devoted to Luke-induced annoyance was lighting up.

“You should consider a helmet,” the Mand’alor’s visor came into view from where he was leaning over Luke on his own speeder bike. He offered a hand up.

“Thanks.”

There was a pause, right between the Mand’alor lifting him from the mud and the Mandalorian’s soft, vocoded “don’t mention it”, where Luke’s breath misted across his visor and he thought he could feel an answering spark of interest from the Mand’alor. But then the Mand’alor was swinging Luke roughly into the seat behind him and speeding off in restless anticipation. Luke busied himself by glomming onto Grogu’s presence, the child a bright spot in the force below the soothing impressions of swaying trees and vivid flowering plants.

\---

“Sorry for the delay,” Luke apologized again as soon as he swung the door open, casting an embarrassed glance toward the Mand’alor where he stood, still unaffected by the storm, on the threshold.

“Where is he?”

“Sleeping in his room, Mand’alor,” he said, ducking his head in the facsimile of a formal bow, “though I’m sure he’ll be out as soon as he senses your presence.”

He half expected the Mand’alor to be more upset when he sloshed into his domicile soaking wet, waited for the patented, stern talking to the Mand’alor reserved for Luke when he left Grogu under the nurse droid’s care, nevermind that he was sleeping and Luke had only been gone for thirty minutes. Instead, the man palmed Luke’s jaw with a very firm grip, curling three gloved fingers around the back of his neck and using his thumb to hold him still.

Luke shut his mouth with a click.

“How’s your head?”

Luke could see it, could _feel_ it. How the Mand’alor would remove his helmet, let it slip carelessly from his fingers to the floor, too preoccupied to care. How stoically, steadily, he would tilt Luke’s face up and kiss him. He’d be precise about it, methodical—start slowly, working his lips against Luke’s, coaxing his mouth ever-so-slightly open with a few languid motions. And then Luke would push back, any reservations he had falling away as he opened his mouth fully and tangled his breath with the Mand’alor’s, whose five o’clock shadow would be scratchy and who Luke layered on flavors of petrichor and cigar smoke though, no-that’s not right- the Mand’alor didn’t smoke. Luke unwittingly pried deeper, sinking unintentionally into the Mand’alor’s memories, and sought out his vice of choice. _There_ the man was, sipping a couple fingers of Scotch, routine, before bed while the beeps and buzzes and comforting whirr of the Razor Crest 2’s engines ensconced him; reading briefings over dinner; when he was up late doing whatever else the Mand’alor did when he wasn’t thoroughly derailing Luke’s nightly routine.

Rain sluiced off the Mand’alor’s armor in broad rivulets, pooling on the hardwood floors where he stood in silence.

“I’m sorry. I don’t-that is,” Luke said, cheeks pinking in disbelief. He continued, frantic, “it was-I fell really hard, and the concussion, it must’ve-I mean, it won’t happen again.”

“You don’t seem concussed,” the Mand’alor said in lieu of behaving normally, tilting Luke’s head left and right to check his pupils in the soto lighting, “What are your symptoms?”

They stared at one another and Luke barely had time to register that it was his turn to talk with the Mand’alor’s hand, the leather smooth and wet, still on his jaw when Grogu awoke.

An excited squeal echoed from down the hall and the Mand’alor quickly removed his hand from Luke’s jaw, though his visor lingered in his direction for a moment, and Luke’s skin tingled under his perceived gaze. Grogu tumbled down the hallway, the patter of his little feet announcing his arrival.

“Welcome home,” Luke said shakily.

The home in question was a series of connected, geodesic domes on platforms set high in the jungle’s canopy. Numerous broad, triangular windows provided glimpses of verdant vegetation and the ever-raging storm beyond. Of all of the New Republic’s safe houses, this was his favorite. It was modern and understated and nothing at all what Luke expected when he arrived, not with the stories he’d squeezed out of Han and Wedge about Corellia. Luke cut his gaze away from the clinging drape of the Mand’alor’s soaking wet cape across his broad shoulders, something in his chest easing as the Mand’alor intercepted Grogu’s speedy progression with an arcing twirl, scooping the child into his arms.

“Hey kid,” the Mand’alor said, sounding altogether like a different person—softer, happier, warmer—with Grogu squashing his face against his helmet, gurgling eagerly as his little hands spread wide against the beskar.

Perhaps the Mandalorian would forget about what happened. About Luke, ace pilot for the New Republic, crashing in the mud. About the Luke accidentally reading his mind. Perhaps the Mandalorian’s initial, cursory inquiry into his health had swept them into a shared fantasy, not some desperate one-sided projection on Luke’s part. The latter was a horrible thought that kept Luke peering intently at the water pooling around the sole ruler of Mandalore’s shiny boots, angry wind gusting against the side of his safehouse.

“You’ve come a long way,” Luke announced to the room, “I’ll show you to the guest room, let you two have some privacy.”

Luke was known to entertain a fantasy every now and again, but he’d never considered that the first time he would manage to get the Mand’alor to stay overnight it would be soaked to the bone, exhausted, and with the Mand’alor in a separate bed. He listened to the Mand’alor and Grogu’s hushed, one-sided conversation in the next room over and stared at the ceiling and thought that the Mand’alor would probably never, never fuck him.

\---

The morning after was pretty terrible, and Luke had a lot of terrible morning-afters, including the morning he’d awoken to Grogu’s distress call roughly two months ago, knowing at once that his work to build the New Jedi Order was not for naught in the same instant that he knew he could lose it all if he didn’t move fast. Within moments of waking up that morning, a solemn surety settled over him, a deep knowing that he’d soon be quitting the Rogue Squadron, likely resigning his General title, that his life was inescapably altered before he’d even finished fastening his boots.

Contrarily, in a manner inseparable from the very core of his being, Luke knew he only had himself to blame for his current circumstances.

See, the Mand’alor was the perfect object for a crush you never intended to do anything about.

For one thing, he was very important and very busy, and that in itself was very convenient for someone still parsing how to love without attachment. Luke could steal little pieces here and there if he didn’t ask for too much, if he didn’t get too greedy. And the little pieces were delectable—hard won glimpses of intimacy below the silent man’s façade, to be filed away and cherished. Case in point, the Mandalorian knew Tatooine’s own Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, shared Luke’s stamina for conversation on cruiser specs, and was oddly sexy when frustrated. And if you weren’t going to be in a relationship with him, and there were no stakes, then it was easy to admit the other, more obvious things, like that he was a great listener and an even better dad and was built like a brick fucking house.

Second, if Luke got clumsy and gave himself away – if he sent more holos than strictly necessary, stood too close, brought him up in casual conversation – the one explanation that nobody was ever going to suggest was, _he’s pining over the Mand’alor_. Because, seriously, a Mandalorian-let alone _the_ Mandalorian-with a Jedi? That was crazy talk. Sometimes even Luke had a hard time believing it.

And third, the Mand’alor was completely oblivious. It didn’t seem to occur to the Mand’alor that there were personal relationships. As far as he was concerned, there were those who could be trusted around his child (a more well-adjusted individual would call these friends), those who helped him keep Mandalore at an acceptable level of chaos (a metric known only to Mandalorians), and those who merited shooting on sight (somehow Boba Fett didn’t make it into this category). On the other hand, from the little Luke understood of Mandalorian culture and the little the Mand’alor disclosed of his personal life, it was also entirely possible that the Mand’alor had shacked up with someone in the two or so months since he’d stared so soulfully into Luke’s eyes (fine, yes, into Grogu’s eyes) on the moff’s Imp Cruiser.

So, doing something about it, about Luke’s harmless, perfect crush—namely, projecting a kiss—defeated the whole kriffing purpose.

The throbbing in his head abated a bit by the time he’d run through his morning exercises and slipped into his black robes, but the secession of his headache meant that the crushing humiliation could seep in. He staggered out of his room and into the kitchen trying to piece together what happened to make him lose control and imagine kissing the Mand’alor— _holy druk_ —and delve into his memories and—

And the Mand’alor was in the kitchen.

He’d left the cape off that morning and he was leaning against the countertop like he’d fall asleep on the floor if he didn’t, his back to Luke. With his helmet off, Luke could see his dark hair was a riot of cowlicks sticking up where he’d slept on it, presuming he’d even slept. He was also clutching a hot mug of caf in his bare hands, and Luke felt a shudder in his chest at the sight of them, like being drawn to magnetic north.

“Good morning,” he said, though the impulse to slink out and return to bed was certainly there.

The Mand’alor smoothly returned his helmet onto his head and turned to face him, head cocked, as if surprised to see Luke in his own kitchen, “You’re awake.”

“Good morning,” Luke heard himself repeat, smiling at the sound of the Mand’alor’s morning voice, “Grogu around?”

“Sleeping. You take caf?”

“No, thanks.”

Luke swept over to the Mand’alor’s left, to where he knew the bread was, sufficiently chastened by how the Mand’alor’s shoulders tensed when he reached across him to retrieve it from the shelf. Luke felt alive to his every gesture: the way he blearily stirred his coffee, the twist of his exposed wrists, the pale morning light buttery where it touched his armor. And any time he got close to the Mand’alor, Luke thought about what it would be like if the Mand’alor actually kissed him. For real.

He put distance between them, stepping to the stove and busying himself with setting a cast-iron pan over one of the old school burners on the stove, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. While the butter took its time melting in the cast-iron, Luke allowed himself a moment to languish in his shame, as a treat.

“About last night. I’m really sorry for-”

“Why am I here?”

Luke hesitated, eyes locked unseeingly on the eggs he cracked, one after the other, into the pan while he prodded at the Mandalorian in the force. It felt wrong not to apologize, especially with the cinematic “day break after the storm” atmosphere of the morning, ozone and dew thick in the air. But the Mandalorian seemed totally unfazed.

When it came to Luke Skywalker, the Mandalorian seemed largely unfazed. It was part of his charm.

“Didn’t I say in my message?”

“You said you needed help. My help, specifically,” the Mand’alor tilted his helmet, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, “Here I am. And you’re making eggs.”

Luke flashed him a wry smile, eyebrow quirking, “You’re not one for apologies, are you?”

“Skywalker.”

The way his stomach flipped at the Mand’alor’s stern tone was definitely worth looking into later. He transferred eggs and a slice of toast onto two plates, frivolously floating one the Mand’alor’s way.

“I need you to watch Grogu.” He said eventually, turning to face the wall so the Mand’alor could eat in peace. The scrape of the Mand’alor’s cutlery against his plate was loud in the ever-brightening kitchen.

“Why?”

“I’m going away for a bit, nothing dangerous. I got a lead on a holocron that might help with Grogu’s training. Perhaps with my own, as well.”

“If it’s not dangerous, why not bring the child with?”

Luke laughed, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, “Well, ‘not dangerous’ for me and ‘not dangerous’ for Grogu are two different things.”

The Mand’alor moved to the sink to wash his dish with weighted precision.

“I don’t like this,” he said unnecessarily. 

“I’ve done it many times,” Luke cut in, raising his voice to be heard over the water, “you just have to watch Grogu ‘til I’m back. Maybe next time I could drop him off on Mandalore. Or we can try leaving him with Leia. Little Ben would enjoy the company, I’m sure.”

“Next time? You don’t even wear a helmet, Jedi.”

A spike of irritation preceded the Mand’alor coming to loom in front of Luke—Luke noted despairingly that the Mand’alor did not wear a cod piece.

“It’s worse than that, Manda’lor,” Luke craned his neck to smile up at him, resting his chin in his palm as he popped the remainder of his toast into his mouth. “I don’t even own one.”

“You called me to a random safe house halfway across the galaxy to take care of the kid. So that you can find a knick knack. Probably on a dangerous planet, considering your subconscious death wish.”

“Conscious, Mand’alor. I’ve been reliably informed I have a _conscious_ death wish.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“Oh, I’m not denying it. I agree with everything you’ve said.”

“You’ve said there are corrupting forces out there; that the kid could fall prey to them without proper training,” the Mand’alor spelled out, his irritation catching up thick and rich on Luke’s tongue, “What happens to him if something happens to you? What kind of example are you setting for my-for the kid?”

That was only a half truth. Luke paused, parsing the emotions knotted up with the frustration wafting off the Mand’alor, one of those “ _Yes, and_ ”s that Luke got so frequently from him- _“Yes, he cares about Grogu, and..._ ” The trick was figuring out the and.

Luke clung to the audacity of hope.

“There’s a lot to know about being a Jedi, a vast majority of which I didn’t have the opportunity to learn. Books, artifacts-they’re the only thing that will ensure Grogu gets the training he requires. Training that will protect him from the Dark Side. It’s a calculated risk, Mand’alor, but it’s necessary. I’ve spent the past few years rebuilding the New Order’s library, but I’ve still got a long way to go,” said Luke, a bit punched out by the weight of his own honesty, “I’ve put it off as long as I can but I can’t any longer.”

“Will you at least tell me where you’re going?”

“Asog,” Luke said, innocent, just as Grogu scuttled in. The child began tugging at the Mand’alor’s leg and Luke, who could sense an opportunity blindfolded from 2500 km away, knew it was time to take his leave. He shoved the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth and swept from the room to finish packing.

\---

Luke was midway through securing the holocron below a bungee net on the wall for his return trip, his exhaustion making it a great undertaking, when he received a transmission from the Mand’alor. It took him a minute to deconstruct it as he’d sent it in Mandoa, his tone sounding somehow both more clipped and exasperated than usual:

“Looked up Asog. If you survive, we will be having words upon your return.”

It warmed Luke’s heart a bit, to hear the Mandalorian's disapproving voice. Then Luke’s ship exploded.

\---

The problem was Asog, Din reflected sourly. He crouched over Skywalker’s unconscious body, shifting on the hard floor – metal, as in the durasteel of the floor of Din’s Razor Crest 2. Really, Luke should have stayed the kriff out of Asog, no matter the promise of whatever Jedi knick knack it was that lead him there. Nothing good ever came of meddling in the Unknown Regions.

Skywalker’s breathing sounded alarming, slow and loud and dry, with an unpleasant deep wheeze. He’d be better off somewhere warmer. He’d be better off in a _bed_ , but seeing as the bed in the Razor Crest 2 required a ladder and the Razor Crest 2 was the only defensible location Din could find on short notice, well. It wasn’t Din’s fault. He’d had a few other things on his plate at the time.

Durese wasn’t his best language – he’d sincerely meant to brush up for years, especially when he was still in the game, but he never seemed to get around to it. And the only medical contact he’d been able to scrounge up was a couple planets over and had had some impenetrable rural class-marker accent, anyway. So, all Din knew was that the gouge in Skywalker’s lungs had been sealed, and Skywalker was stoned out of his skull on bacta and painkillers. There was nothing to be done but let him rest on his makeshift bed—mostly composed of Din’s cape—on the floor, watch for signs of infection, and shoot anybody who trifled with them.

Skywalker’s supposed Jedi knick-knack fence could have helped of course, if she hadn’t been in league with the Imps.

Skywalker’s hand was limp and cold. Din put his fingertips, gloves neatly tucked into his utility belt, on Skywalker’s face, which was clammy with sweat, same as five minutes ago. He thought of the kid, who was currently fast asleep in his hammock above Din’s bed, doing the same thing—it was the kid’s customary hello to his loved ones, and then he forced himself not to think about it. He’d just have to see to it that Skywalker survived long enough for the kid to do it again.

He wetted a rag and began wiping the sweat and blood from Skywalker’s skin. What kind of a world was it where someone could wound Skywalker– _Skywalker_ – in such a way. The memory of the dark troopers falling under Luke’s almost bored saber strokes took up a lot of real estate in Din’s mind, even months later.

When Skywalker had been skewered, Din was in a holo meeting with the Armorer and Viszla, discussing the possibility of reconstructing another dome city to serve their growing numbers. He’d heard any number of noises from the kid during his tenure as his protector, but hearing his kid’s blood curdling shriek when Skywalker got wounded was a brand-new one.

“Luke Skywalker,” he said, pushing the Jedi’s damp bangs out of his sallow face, “assume that even twenty-eight year olds are mortal, and you’ll save us both some trouble.”

He was feeding Luke water, literally drop by drop – the Razor Crest 2 wasn’t exactly outfitted with an ice machine – when Skywalker’s eyes came open.

“It’s me,” Din heaved a deep sigh, relief the only thing keeping his irritation at a manageable level, “Lie still, you got hit pretty badly in the ribs.”

“Where’s the holocron?”

“Vanished along with your fence, who I’m guessing you know is friends with the Imps by now,” Din said drily.

Luke nodded weakly. “And the Sith?”

“There was a _Sith_? No, no, one small swallow. Keep that in your stomach for a bit and then you can try more.”

On his visor, he monitored Skywalker’s specs. He was looking alright, a far better sight than Din would have been. Jedi healing ability, maybe. For a moment, he thought Skywalker had gone back to sleep, which would be ideal, as sleep was the only other medicine Din had for him. But his fever-bright eyes came open again, and he raised one hand and placed it on the back of Din’s hand. The skin to skin contact sent a jolt down Din’s spine.

“Mand’alor,” he said, “Thank you. For coming.”

Din snatched his hand away.

“No, it’s all right,” Skywalker’s voice was only a thread, and his eyes were already half-shut, “You’re very good at saving the day.”

\---

It was the last thing Din wanted to happen, really.

Mandalorians weren’t the first to recognize the allure of taking someone powerful to bed, but they were among the most aggressive in making it happen. And who was more of a trophy than Mandalore’s sole ruler? It was a rather troublesome train of thought for Din’s schedule.

Those that were brash enough to proposition him were often either too young or too inexperienced, and Xi’an was a mistake he wouldn’t be repeating, of course. A dalliance with Boba Fett, while a physically intense way to pass the time, hadn’t lasted. And he and Paz Vizsla had already worked out the boundaries of a good working relationship.

So that left no real romantic options, and no options suited Din nicely. While the Mandalorians were a sensible sort that hardly required guidance, the reconstruction of their entire home planet compelled a more centralized leadership style than historically necessary. Din devoted much of his time to thinking on the topic, and perhaps more time thinking on how there had to be someone better suited to thinking about it than him. Even Bo-Katan, whose edges were sharp enough to slice through any issue, seemed worn down by the weight of it all at times. On the rare occasion that he did get a break in the past eight weeks, Din sent holos and mix tapes to the Kid. And if he needed to blow off steam, there were other, more violent stress relief methods Din had long succumbed to.

So, when he’d arrived at the Corellian port, far removed from the polluted murk of Coronet City, with his dark saber in one hand and a blaster pistol in the other, he’d been anticipating a day or two of just the sort of stress relief he enjoyed most.

Except that instead of helpless and lacking, Luke had been disconcertingly blithe and capable. It should have set off some alarm bells. It did, eventually, but not before the damage was done.

Skywalker had met him at the port, the wind whipping his hair around as he leaned against his Joben T-85 like the lead in an old school holovid. His hooded eyes held an open invitation to a fast, harsh, violent coupling; tempted Din to push him over his speeder and hold him there, catching his gasps up hungrily. “It’s the next town over, hope you don’t mind a bit of a ride,” he’d said while he swung his leg over his speeder, the black fabric of his pants stretching over his thigh, and Din had said, “By all means”, almost too eager, and straddled his own speeder, so the only possible response was Luke throwing an impenetrable look over his shoulder and saying, “This way, then.”

“I’ll be back in a few days,” Luke had said a day later from the cockpit of a beat-up, inconspicuous A/SF-01 B-wing, doing his best to smooth away Din’s disquiet with the same pleased smile he used to get a rise out of him. “If the Mand’alor permits it, maybe I can drop Grogu by Mandalore next time. Save us both some time.” and Din had said, “Bo-Katan isn’t the biggest fan of the New Republic. Or Jedi,” but reluctantly, and how strange it was to want so badly not to say no to Skywalker.

“Maybe someday,” Skywalker said, sliding a helmet on over his head with a look that dared Din to say something. 

“Is that a helmet?”

Before inheriting a planet, Din had been a great bounty hunter, and he knew when someone said something but meant another. So when Skywalker murmured huskily, “They come highly suggested, Mand’alor”, Din ignored it and said, “See you around.”

Din watched Skywalker’s ship clear the planet’s atmosphere, Grogu’s ears pushed back by the wind of his launch. From the crook of his arm, the Kid embarked on an impassioned series of gurgling noises, big eyes trained on Din’s face. His babble was punctuated with the hypnotized pauses of a young child whose entire world was refreshing every few seconds, thoughts trailing behind his undirected attention. Din looked down at him and said, “Yeah, that’s going to be inconvenient. Let’s find you something to eat.”

\---

It took three days to get them out of the Unknown Regions. Din didn't like leaving double-crossers unpunished—bad for business, old habits die hard, etc— but sometimes a man had to prioritize.

Skywalker slept most of the time at first, which was peripherally worrying but also gave Din time to figure out how to act like he wasn’t going to jettison Skywalker out of the Razor Crest 2’s airlock as soon as it was safe to fly. By the time they got back to more hospitable parts, Skywalker was able to be vertical, or conscious, or both, for fairly extended periods. He directed Din to a friendly orbit outside of Aleen where the New Republic presence was strong and then immediately spent half a day on the comms being torn a new one by Leia – growing visibly more and more harried each time Leia said, “and _another_ thing-”

Din was forced to admit the New Republic’s recently appointed Minister of State made some excellent points.

“That’s how you know she cares,” Skywalker explained with a harassed smile after Leia finally recused herself to pick her son up from daycare. “Sorry for all the trouble.” He didn't look at Din as he said it, and that was it for them, really; Din knew the type. Some got frozen by fear and never fully thawed out. Luke was the opposite, the type to self-immolate before slowing down. Din wasn’t sure he wanted to be around to watch him burn, wasn’t sure he had a choice. This was not the path he’d intended for their relationship.

"You’re welcome. For saving your life," Din said, and it all came back. “The Kid was upset.”

It wasn’t anger; it was a bizarre amalgam of fear and hunger, perhaps – some grasping emotion that had no name, spiky and difficult in his throat. He pushed away thoughts of Skywalker, of the way he said Din’s title as a taunt, an easy challenge, “ _Mand’alor_ ”, and set the route for Corellia to drop of the Jedi before he could accidentally invite in any other unfortunate emotions.

So that was the end of a manageable two months, he thought as he finally got settled over his briefing-scattered desk back on Mandalore, eyes already glazing over. He didn’t mind Luke — he was clearly a force to be reckoned with, a patient teacher, and Din found his vast collection of obscure mech knowledge and love for the kid endearing. But if Asog had been the time to try to see whether this thing with the Kid could work without him and Luke being on the same page, then obviously the answer was a resounding no.

\---

Luke told himself it was a pattern, not a habit. Afterall, it was only the second time he’d left the kid with the ruler of Mandalore to get his shit rocked in the Unknown Regions. 

“You fool. What’re you doing in Imperial territory?” Wedge Antilles’ voice was radio static on Luke’s transceiver. He flicked open his comms while dodging a proton torpedo. It tore open a hole in the sky behind him and Luke rode the swell of momentum to fly a lazy, sweeping loop around Antilles’ X-wing. 

He couldn’t help the smile in his voice, “Wasn’t it you who said, ‘I make it a rule to go wherever I want to go’, Leader?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Wedge’s X-wing Starfighter roll out of his orbit and tuck into a series of tight barrel rolls. He dragged a TIE fighter’s incoming fire off of Luke as though it was second nature. Perhaps it was.

“And here I thought maybe this was a social call.”

“You know I’m not cleared for intel on the Rogue Squadron’s whereabouts anymore.”

“Oh?”

At Wedge’s feigned innocence, Luke rolled his eyes heavenward, “Something about too many irons in the fire, General.”

He’d rather fly into the sun than admit Leia called Wedge Antilles a bad influence.

“Well, Solo’s not missing again-to my knowledge - and you’re apparently doing alarmingly well without your regular dose of the Rogue Squadron, so what’s brought you into the middle of my dogfight?”

“I had to get a book.”

“A _book_?” Wedge Antilles’ laugh boomed in Luke’s earpiece, “Well, I’m glad that the last couple of months away haven’t blunted your genius for ineptitude.”

Luke took them to a private channel while, in a maneuver that couldn’t be pulled off by anyone but Norra Wexley, a starfighter caused the flashy collision of two imperial TIE fighters before him. Luke paused with his hand retracted midway from the comms panel, watching with an awed flutter of adrenaline in his stomach. He caught the tail end of Wedge’s impressed whistle as the line went active.

“I’d say I don’t miss it but I’d be lying.” Luke sighed.

“Plenty of work to go around if you ever wanna come back.”

Luke found himself laughing again, “What would you do with all your newfound free time?”

“Not sure I trust your math on that one,” Wedge grunted with the effort of evading a pair of over eager laser cannons, “Do they even teach arithmetic on Tatooine?”

Luke took the TIE fighter pursuing Wedge out with ease and abruptly found the sky empty save for the Rogue Squadron’s Starfighters. Disappointment and adrenaline fought for dominance in his chest while he coasted his X-wing over to Wedge’s, rolling over so that his cockpit was upside-down above Wedge’s. He grinned down at him as Wedge looked up, shaking his head with enough exaggeration to convey profound annoyance and Antilles-grade approval.

“Well, that was no Dominus III but kriff it, I could use a drink. You want one?”

“I have to be getting back, actually,” Luke replied, expecting at least a small degree of regret but experiencing none.

“Oh, right. Your babysitting gig.”

Now it was Luke’s turn to shake his head in exasperation, still upside down and jetting ahead of Antilles with a short laugh. A thought struck him and, adrenaline coursing through his veins, he spoke before he could think better of it, “You should come meet him sometime.”

\---

“Please tell me this is some kind of joke,” Din said.

Skywalker looked at him steadily over the wreckage of a flattened Marksman-H training remote, Mandoa alphabet building blocks, and the Kid, who was preoccupied slurping snails from their shells. “Have I, thus far in our acquaintance, struck you as a funny man?”

Din didn’t strangle him but it was a near thing.

“You went again, this time barely waiting for me to arrive here first. After you almost died two weeks ago.”

Skywalker stared mildly at Din while floating an unfriendly looking mushroom out of the Kid’s grasp. He smiled that wry smile of his, the one with a teasing edge to it, “I’ll be sure to give you plenty of lead time when I plan on almost dying next. I know you’re a very busy man.”

“I don’t have time to drop everything and save you whenever you get into trouble.”

_To worry._

Something in that caught Skywalker’s attention, his bright blue eyes watching Din more closely.

“Do we have that type of acquaintanceship?” asked Skywalker, perfectly casual, head cocking curiously to the side. They were on a patio jutting out behind Skywalker’s Corellian safe house, the afternoon sun flooding onto them via a break in the canopy. The light caught on Skywalker’s bangs, revealing hints of platinum that Din had never noticed before.

“What kind of...acquaintanceship is that?”

“The kind where we let our emotions get in the way of the things we have to do.” Skywalker drifted his hand over the Marksman-H training remote and, like magic, it began reassembling. Dents popped out, parts fit together seamlessly. Skywalker spoke to him more earnestly than he had since the second time they’d met, when Skywalker told him he’d never intended to permanently separate him from his son, “I understand we operate differently and I appreciate your patience with me,” he barked out a sharp laugh, “And it means a lot, really, that you saved me on Asog. It’s not often that I need saving-even more rare that I get saved when I do.”

Skywalker floated the alphabet blocks in a jaunty little orbit around the Kid's head while Din's cheeks burned underneath his helmet, “That’s not-”

“I’m sorry, I know you’re unhappy with me and you have a right to be. I just want to make this work.” 

Din swallowed hard, hard enough to distract from the wrench in his chest, the flurry of things he wanted to say to that, and how frustrated he was with Skywalker’s need to talk about _everything_ , with himself for his deep-seated aversion to vulnerability, with the entire kriffing universe for not allowing him to lead the unassuming, peaceful life torn from him at nine years old. He knew there was truth in the other man's implication, that they were doing the best they could with the available choices, but something had to give.

So, Din said, “Okay, then,” and he made himself look up, took two seconds to tuck all of it, everything he was so close to giving away, under his breastplate and out of sight. He looked into Skywalker’s face, respectful and serious, eyes open and tender in a way that hurt like a half-healed cut, and Din made his choice, “Come to Mandalore.”

The building blocks froze in the air then gradually lowered with a soft patter. Luke was looking at him like, whatever response he was expecting from Din, it was not that. He rose up from his cross-legged position on the ground, bringing their chests almost flush. 

“Mandalore?”

There was an urgency simmering under his skin that he didn’t know what to do with, how to deal with it, and Din wanted to turn around and leave. Run.

Instead, Din said, “Think it through. Let me know when you want to go.”

“Whoa, whoa. Back up,” Skywalker frowned, actively righting the stubborn set to his jaw, “I’m trying to build something here. Well, not _here_ here but...a New Jedi Order on _Mandalore_? And didn’t you say your people don’t like the New Republic? I can’t come to visit but I can live there?”

Din scooped the Kid up, allowing him to scrabble up over his shoulders and stare at his reflection in the beskar. He shifted his weight, shrugging one shoulder, “We’ll figure it out.”

He could hear the warm breeze brushing through the leaves around them, birds cawing and wooden planks creaking, the Kid adding his own opinion — little babbles, head cocking — noise and more noise slipped up around the edges of the raised patio. They were facing each other, not a foot between them, the full weight of the sun bearing down on them both, Skywalker's disbelieving smile growing larger and larger, an awful lifting and falling occurring all at once in Din's stomach.

“Leia will hate this,” Luke said, suddenly, his voice a rasp in the wind.

Din nodded slowly.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The Razor Crest 2 was a coronation gift from Boba Fett
> 
> -Key insight into Din Djarin’s character drawn from Sandra Cisneros’ poem titled “I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won’t Because I’m Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen”
> 
> \- I don’t think Luke Skywalker, who spent most of the 4 years prior to rescuing Grogu running with Wedge “you want to come after Wedge Antilles, you better bring a star destroyer” Antilles and the rest of Rogue Squadron, would be anything but a smart-mouthed, reckless, disaster at 28 years old. And I love that for him.
> 
> -Both the words “kriff” and “fuck” exist in this universe. Of all the inaccuracies in this fic, that's the only one I care to address
> 
> -Please mind the rating, which will update as the fic gets steamier
> 
> -Come find me on tumblr at [@mercy-me](https://mercy-me.tumblr.com/) so we can scream together <3


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